Turpentine
by DracoMalfoy456
Summary: The photograph was lying on his bedside table, face-up, like it had been for years. It was worn and faded, a bit crumpled from its journey between wallets and pockets and, eventually, a bedside table. Dust had collected on it, years' worth of grime accumulated from its resting place. Like a reminder of what he had done. (Part of the Life of Pines Series, can be read separately)


Hey all! I'm back. Took a long break to finish high school and even though I'm busy with college now, I found this story in my notes and decided to finish it. It's a short little thing, an interlude really. It also is resolved by the finale of the show, so even though it's sad, you know how it ends.

Though, since this is part of my "Life of Pines" series, I suppose it ends that way, instead of the way in canon. Meh. This story can be read without knowledge of The Life of Pines, so you can see it ending however you see fit.

Hope y'all enjoy! Make sure you leave a comment about what you think! Thanks!

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Tags:

Characters: Stanley Pines, Mentions of Stanford Pines

Additional Tags: Angst, Depression, Broken Relationships, Character Study, One Shot

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 _~~~I watch you grow away from me in photographs~~~  
~~~And memories like spies~~~  
~~~And salt betrays my eyes again~~~  
~~~I started losing sleep and gaining weight~~~  
~~~And wishing I was ten again~~~  
~~~So I could be your friend again~~~_

-Turpentine, by Brandi Carlile

 _ **~XoX~**_

The photograph was lying on his bedside table, face-up, like it had been for years. It was worn and faded, a bit crumpled from its journey between wallets and pockets and, eventually, a bedside table. Dust had collected on it, years' worth of grime accumulated from its resting place. Like a reminder of what he had done.

He hadn't looked at the thing in years. Couldn't, after everything that had happened. It was cruel, a reminder of what had been lost and what might never have been found again, and now of what was lost forever. A reminder of happier days. And yet he couldn't bear the thought of throwing it away, or stuffing it into a drawer like it was junk. Like it was meaningless. So he kept it on his bedside table, pushed far back so he couldn't see it, but there. Always there.

He knew exactly where it was. His eyes bored into its resting place, innocuous though it was. A simple picture, two boys smiling on a summer day before school began. The brief view of beach could be seen in the background. The image was burned into his mind after all the years he had viewed it, using it as fuel while he was homeless, fuel to keep going and to never stop until he had his family back. It was the only picture that had been on him at the time that his father had… and it was the only picture that he had had as a reminder. The only picture he had had of his brother. He had more now, his mother having given them to him years before, but this was his favorite. The one he kept closest.

Thirty years, he mused. It had been thirty years. Thirty years that he had spent trying to rescue his brother. His twin. His once and only friend. Thirty long, arduous years. Years of hatred, anger, pain, and- worst of all- guilt. Guilt at having pushed his brother. Guilt for not being able to bring him back. Guilt for taking over a name that he didn't deserve to take. So much had happened over those thirty years.

He stared at the photo on the bedside table. He couldn't see it, not from his angle, but he didn't need to see it. He knew it like the back of his hand, like an old friend. Like the whiskey he had once enjoyed partaking in, a poison that made everything at once better and worse. The photograph never left that table, never left the room. He hadn't even looked at it in years. Hell, he _couldn't_ look at it. After all, it hurt to see his twin- and himself- so carefree and happy. Like nothing would ever tear them apart. Like they'd be together forever. It hurt like nothing else had ever hurt before.

It shouldn't hurt anymore, though, and that was the rub. He had thought it would stop hurting now that he had his… now that Ford was back. Stanford. The _real_ Stanford. Not the mockery he had made of the name. Not the identity he had spent over half his life creating.

It was cruel irony that it did hurt. His eyes, glued to the place he knew the photo laid, closed slowly, before opening once again, a sad, bitter smile on his face.

Nothing ever went right for him. Nothing he did ever worked out. Try and make his brother happy, he would only make a fool of himself. Try and fix his mistakes, he would only make things worse. Finally, _finally_ succeed in saving his brother from a completely different _universe_ , watch as he drifted even farther away while back in this one.

He would never have him back. He knew this, now. Ford… Stanford would never be his again. His brother. His best friend. His twin. There would always be a rift between them, a space that could never be bridged. Nothing he did would fix this. He had spent years trying, years and years and nothing worked. He had thought… well, he didn't even know what he had thought. Thought that Ford would be grateful. Thought that maybe things would work out. What a fool he was. Nothing he did worked out. Nothing.

He let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair.

It was torture. Being so close to his twin, yet being even farther away than when the man was in another dimension. It hurt him in ways he had thought couldn't be hurt anymore.

What hurt the most was that part of him still had hope that things would work out. That he and Ford would work through everything and go back to being twins. Being the best of friends, thick as thieves, never one without the other. Like they had been when they were young. And that Ford would finally see worth in him, no matter what that thrice damned book said. Or that Ford would love him again, even with his faults, like he had when they were young. Logically he knew it would never happen, but he had always been an idealist. He had always been the fool his brother thought him to be.

The photo was taunting him. He could see it, in his mind. Could see his twin's face, could see his own. Saw the grins, saw the happiness he hadn't truly felt in years.

But it was gone now. That happiness. That youthful, deceitful innocence and nativity. Oh, what he wouldn't give to get it back. Sixty years old and yet he felt like he had lived a million. Eons had passed since that picture had been taken. Millions of miles spread from that moment to this. An ocean of heartache. A universe of pain. How he longed to return to a day when it didn't hurt so badly.

He looked down, at the ground, and sighed. From his view he could see his stomach, extended and protruding from years of inactivity, and a sneer began to form on his lips. A bitter bark masquerading as a laugh was released as he recalled a promise he had once made to himself, in that photograph. To never grow fat and old, like his father. To never allow himself to become so wasted and faded and angry. To never become who and what he now was. Another testament to how time had changed.

He was old. There was no denying it, not now. He was old, older than he had any right to be. Thirty years wasting away down in a dark pit, trying to put a portal to another flipping dimension together again with duct tape and spit did that to a person, he supposed. He had thought he'd feel young again, however, when he saw his brother. When he was at last able to remember without that cursed guilt and anger and resentment filling him. When he was allowed to reminisce rather than lament.

When his suffering had finally been realized.

He let out another barking laugh and ignored how it sounded less like a laugh and more like a sob. It didn't matter. He was old. Older than the dirt that surrounded the shack. Older than life itself. He'd never be young again; he'd never have that youth he had once coveted back again.

He'd never have his brother back again, either. Another sob was released and again he ignored it. He had wasted enough tears on that man. He had wasted enough of his time on fixing something that couldn't be fixed. He had wasted away enough.

He looked up from the ground and fixed his gaze onto the bedside table, where he could still see the photograph. Where he could see his youth, his happiness, his brother. Where his life was hidden, hidden within the ink and glue and whatever else made a Polaroid. Memories, he thought gravely, or time. Life.

He was struck, suddenly, as he stared at the photo that dominated his life, the photo that mocked him without words, with an intense need to get rid of it. That picture; that cursed image that refused to cease haunting him. That happiness he'd never get back but craved more than anything. Oh, he longed to have it back. And he hated it. Hated how he would never have it. Hated how it mocked him. Hated how much he yearned for it, like a needy child.

Hated what he had become.

Hated what he had done.

Hated himself.

He wanted it gone and he wanted to be free. He needed to be relieved of this anguish and this hatred and this fear. This all-encompassing fear that he had wasted his life, his time, his love, on nothing. On a memory that had fermented and turned into turpentine eons ago. On a friend who had never been a friend, who had never seen anything but a burden.

On the love he still felt for a faded photograph of a brother.

"Leave me alone!" he shouted into empty space, towards the table that contained a lifetime, "I won't play this game anymore! I'm done! Let me be!"

…

But it didn't reply.

It couldn't.

After all.

It was just a faded photograph.

 _ **~XoX~**_

 _~~~These days we go to waste like wine~~~  
~~~That's turned to turpentine~~~  
~~~It's six AM and I'm all messed up~~~  
~~~I didn't mean to waste your time~~~  
~~~So I'll fall back in line~~~  
~~~But I'm warning you~~~  
~~~We're growing up~~~_


End file.
